Heartbeats
by wildskysong
Summary: The death of Tony DiNozzo and all that comes after.  AU mid-S7, character death, angst, grief, supernatural elements.
1. One

**Hey everoyone! This is my first full-length NCIS story. I've actually been writing on the side since January or so, and I decided hey, why not post it? I have twelve chapters written so far, so hopeully I won't take forever to update, yes?**

**This is a dark fic- there's character death right off the bat, and then from there grief and angst. Also, there are no definitive pairings. It's all pretty vague. There is some _slight_ Tony/Ziva, but... well, you'll have to see. **

**Enjoy! Read and review, please!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the awesome that is NCIS. **

* * *

"Everything can change in a heartbeat." -Unknown

It was supposed to be a routine bag-and-tag. They were just going to Petty Officer Chris White's (the murder victim) house to collect evidence for the lab. Ducky already had the body, all they were going to do was canvass, set up a perimeter, bag and tag, et cetera, et cetera. There was not supposed to be a shoot-out in the hallway.

And yet, there was.

"Get down!" Ziva shouted, firing her gun in the direction of the assailants. (Her face was bloody. Flying shrapnel drew a pretty red line down her cheek.) McGee hurled himself to the side, wide-eyed, plump face ashen. His hands shook, but his gun was steady.

Gibbs shot from behind an overturned table that once held flowers and pamphlets and stationary, (Petty Officer White's apartment complex was very, very nice) the wood and steel dented and splintered under the force of the bullets, but he didn't notice the splinters buried in his stomach, his chest. (Later that night, he would, and he'd slowly pull them out of his skin, admiring the way they shone, all sticky crimson with blood.)

Tony (the fool, the proud, brave, heroic fool) ducked behind a doorway, sticking his head out to fire at intervals.

The hallway was a mess of broken wood, shattered glass, and bullets that sang as they crossed paths, weaving a deadly song that throbbed and pumped in the team's blood. The attacker(s, Gibbs was sure that there were two, at least) also ducking, weaving, hiding, had a large gun and a small gun, and the bullets flattened the reinforced steel on Gibbs' table and punched through the glass door windows. McGee was bleeding now, from his shoulder, and his face was pale with pain. Tony was also bleeding, a gash on his forehead, but he seemed to neither notice nor care.

The LEOs, where were the damn LEOs? (Late, as usual, outside grabbing coffee at the nearest Starbucks, chatting about the gruesome murder, too late, too relaxed.) The four NCIS agents were taking a beating, pinned down, unable to get a clear shot at their foes, (and one of them was going to get badly, badly hurt, Gibbs _knew _it) and they desperately needed help, but no one was rushing to their aid.

Gibbs caught a flash of motion; an attacker, face masked, and he raised his gun, but Tony beat him to it. With fierce accuracy, the younger agent fired his gun, and the attacker, dressed in black (mourning colors, how fitting) went down, crimson painting the wall behind him.

"Did I get him?" Tony shouted, stepping out of his doorway. The blood on his face was drying, forming a mask. "Got him!"

Slowly, Ziva and McGee came out of their cover, Ziva scanning with quick dark eyes and Tim still clutching his gun, fingers white, a shard of glass in his shoulder. No more gunshots rang out; Tony had killed the attacker, the fight was over, they were safe, only minor injuries all around.

"Damn." Gibbs muttered, looking around. He was still jangling with adrenaline, with fear for his people. But the attacker was still, unmoving. Tony's bullet had killed him, and that was okay with Gibbs.

Tony was grinning, ear to ear, a regular Chesire cat, despite his bloody face and his throbbing heart. He had disposed of the threat, but his gut still churned a warning and his heart was _babumpababumpa _in his rib cage. He was shaking. Only Gibbs noticed.

"That was unexpected." Ziva panted, touching her cheek.

"Tell me about it, Zee-vah." Tony gasped, too-bright eyes glittering. Blood was oozing from his chest, too, and the tell-tale piece of glass glittered like his eyes. "I mean, what the hell was that about?"

Gibbs straightened. (He didn't feel the splinters, not yet.) "Outside." He ordered. "Now."

Tony grinned again, showing all his teeth. "I'll stay, Boss, process the scene."

"No, DiNozzo." Gibbs' gut was a tense, coiled knot, and he felt as though something very very very bad was going to happen.

The senior field agent sighed gustily, rolled his green green eyes, (so bright, like little green stars) and smiled. He was seriously worrying Gibbs; he was trembling, and his blood surged in his veins, visibly pulsing in his pale neck. "Okay, Boss."

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, three thunderous peals rent the air, _boomboomboom_, and Gibbs was on the ground, old Corps training taking over, and his hand was a mess of shards and blood, and Ziva yelled and Tim went sideways, and Tony…

Tony simply was not there.

"Tony!" Gibbs roared, rolling to his feet, dazed, confused, his hand bleeding and his eyes searching. A flash of motion caught his eye—a black-clad man fleeing, a handgun tucked against his chest—

"Tony!"

The name died in his throat. Lying on the floor, spread-eagled, was Tony DiNozzo. The bullet was in the wall directly behind where Tony had been standing. Arterial spray coated the walls, the glass, the table.

And Tony was on the floor, a hole in his heart, his grin frozen on his face. In a heartbeat, Gibbs felt himself come apart, and he looked into the green green eyes, already frosting over, something inside him cried out.

_No. _

_Not DiNozzo._

_Not Tony. Please, God, not Tony. _

_Tony, get up! Get up, DiNozzo, that's not funny!_

"Tony?"

There was no answer. (There never was, really. Never ever, and damn, this was a dream, a nightmare, that's it, Tony wasn't dead, like Kate, like Shannon, like Kelly, like Jenny. Nope. He was alive, and Gibbs was only dreaming.)

He took three steps (one for each bullet) and his hand gushed blood, and then he collapsed next to Tony's body, and the LEOs (the damn late LEOs, reeking of guilt and coffee) arrived to carry him out. He heard Ziva crying, and McGee moan in quiet agony. He was aware of his heart beating, and the fire in his hands, and his chest. (He felt the splinters, now.) He was aware of the still-warm hand that he was clutching. He was holding on to Tony DiNozzo, trying to keep him from slipping away, trying to make him remember the promise he'd made in Bethesda, five years ago, dying of pneumatic plague, and the LEOs were shouting in his ears.

"Let go, sir, there's nothing you can do for him now." One of them, a big burly fellow, gray in his hair and beard, pulled at Gibbs. "He's gone, sir, he's gone."

_No. _Gibbs growled, in the back of his mind. _No, you can't take him from me! Tony, get up! You promised. I haven't given you permission to die!_

He hadn't fought this hard since Shannon, since Kelly, and his hand tightened on Tony's. The LEO pulled again, trying not to injure the man further, but getting desperate; Gibbs was bleeding freely from his hand, his chest, his lips.

His stomach hurt, too, but that was different, and his mouth tasted like ashes. Tony's hand was cooling.

Finally, the bigger officer, with a mighty pull, separated Gibbs and his agent, and the rift shook the former Marine to his core. Kate's death, Jenny's death, both had been bad, both had hurt to hell, but this, this was worse, this was beyond hell. (This was Shannon, was Kelly, and Gibbs was _helpless _to stop it.) Tony had been with him for almost a decade. Tony was Tony; he always shook off his injuries.

Tony was a rock. He held things together while everyone else fell apart. He was on Gibbs' six, always, and now… And now he was gone.

In a heartbeat, Gibbs watched as the center of his team, the rock, the man who kept things together when Gibbs himself could not, fell away.

He watched it fall and he howled.

* * *

**Next update in a week or so. Thanks!**

**~WSS**


	2. Two

**Hi guys! I'm back! Here's Chapter Two, on time, as promised. **

**I had fun writing this one- everyone's grief was a challenge, and it was so interesting to get inside their grieving little heads. :p**

**Disclaimer: I do not own NCIS. At all. And I never, ever will. **

* * *

"I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs." –Death, _The Book Thief_

Two

_(two hours)_

McGee wanted to be numb. He shouldn't, he knew. He should want to be angry, sad, screaming, crying, fighting to find the killer, but he wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to feel like someone reached inside him and turned off his heart.

If only it was that easy. Off on, off on, like a toy, a machine. He would have given anything to be one of his precious computers right now. (Anything and everything, if only he couldn't _feel._)

Timothy McGee, NCIS Special Agent, computer whiz, Probie, and sometimes Senior Agent, sat in his chair, shoulders hunched, trying not to cry. His shoulder ached, but his pain medication stood untouched on his desk.

He didn't deserve it. Why should he, when Tony was _dead_ (such a painful word, such an ugly word) and nothing else would ever be the same again?

Ziva was gone, Tim knew. She hadn't returned to NCIS. Neither had Gibbs, but McGee had nowhere else to go. He couldn't go home, to his apartment, and be alone there. So he sat at his desk and held his tears in, shaking and trying to remember what it felt like to breathe.

Seconds after the Incident, the LEOs (they had been too late to make a difference, why, why?) rushed in and took the shocked, broken NCIS agents out. Their wounds had been treated, but none of the paramedics had the balls to try and detain them, particularly Gibbs, who had sat in the back of the ambulance, steely-eyed, pale, and silent.

So they wandered aimlessly, each scattering, and now Tim was alone and he hurt and Tony's empty desk sat right next to him, and the proximity of it was like fire to his skin.

He had been awful to Tony, really. He had teased him and made fun of him and laughed at him. It hurt to think that now Tony couldn't tease back.

Tim's shoulders convulsed. He shuddered.

"Timmy?" Abby's voice floated from the elevator; she saw McGee and grinned, bouncing over to talk. Abby. Who didn't know. _Shit. _

"Tim, I have to tell you something!" She singsonged. She was holding something and smiling. She stopped at his desk, grinning, waiting for McGee to ask "What, Abby?"

McGee's throat convulsed. He couldn't speak, couldn't tell her. (Make it stop, please, God, please, make it _stop_.)

"What's wrong?" She asked, taking in his bandaged shoulder, his red, swollen eyes, his crumpled face. "You're hurt." And then she realizes that the bullpen is empty, and her eyes light on the injury again, the held-back tears. "Oh God."

McGee nodded, biting his lip. Blood trickles down his throat, warm and coppery.

Abby understood instantly, knew that one from their family has gone, left the world, and was never, ever coming back. "Who?"

He wanted to tell her. (He wanted to make it go away, to turn back time, but he's only Tim McGee, only Probie, and he just _couldn't_.)

His lips, his tongue, wouldn't obey his brain, and he stared at her mutely.

"Gibbs?" The tears were already welling up in Abby's eyes.

He shook his head; his breath splashed out, a wet gasp.

"Ziva?"

Another shake, another splash of pain, of grief, forcing McGee to keep going even though he wanted it to stop.

"Tony?"

And the empty desk behind her gave her the answer. Abby Scuito curled up against Tim McGee, and together they cried like children, their wet, tortured gasps and their quiet sobs the only sound in the bullpen.

* * *

_(three hours)_

Ziva David wished she was made of stone. A mountain, an ancient statue, immovable, unfeeling. Then only the elements could hurt her, the wind, the rain, and mortal things like bullets and broken glass wouldn't matter at all.

Her sparring partner is taking a beating. Ziva is all flying fists and lashing feet, fierce in her pain, wild in her agony. It's how she was raised, to punch pain in the face, to kick away despair. (Her sister taught her that. Never let the pain consume you, Ziva. Fight it.)

Her own feet are starting to ache, and tomorrow they'll be a bloody mess. Good. The physical can take the place of the emotional.

The local police had come too late, much much too late, and now all of the dreams, the careful, cautious dreams that she had (just) planned (dared to hope in, to _believe_ in) were lying on a table in Autopsy.

Dead.

It was not possible. Tony was not invincible, but he always bounced back. He took punches, beatings, bullets, plagues, everything, and was back at work a few days later, grinning and making life miserable.

Ziva was not accustomed to helplessness. Tony's killer was free, and now there was not a damn thing she could do about it.

Director Vance, upon learning of the Incident, had pulled Gibbs' team from the case.

And now there was nothing Ziva could do. Her dreams of Tony (of possibly dating and having a kid, maybe, of being the family she never had) were gone. Tony, with his incessant chatter, his constant stream of verbal diarrhea and his pop culture references, was gone.

It hurt.

With a shout, Ziva David leaped at her partner, striking until her partner lay on the mat, stunned, and Ziva's hands and feet were bleeding.

She straightened her back (a mountain, human to rock, human to rock) and walked out of the ring.

Ziva climbed into her little red car (You trying to kill me, Zee-vah?) and drove home, obeying the laws of traffic for the first time in forever. (She had only driven slower once, when Tony, concussed and exhausted, grudgingly accepted her offer to take him home.)

Inside her apartment, she bandaged her bloody feet and stared at the cuts and bruises forming. The blood dripped sluggishly to the floor (there was a small puddle, now). Ziva blinked, slowly, calmly, though her hands twitched and her heartbeat roared and flickered.

She sat in the dark and watched the moon shine silver on the blood. Her insides twisted. What could she do? She was helpless, really. A foreigner on American soil. She was barely a citizen and barely a federal agent. She had no connections, not anymore, and she had no way of finding out who had dared to rip away Tony. It was like being a young girl all over again; a child in a land of fear and bitterness, with only the synagogue and the rabbi to comfort her, what with her militant father directing Mossad and her siblings running ops all around the world and getting themselves blown up.

She fingered the necklace around her neck, the mark of her people, her struggle, her faith. She was Jewish by birth and practice.

And the Jews mourned their dead properly.

And then Ziva was gone, racing all the way to the Navy Yard, because she simply could not be helpless any longer.

* * *

_(four hours)_

Donald Mallard wished that he had chosen another career, teaching, maybe. Teachers never had to deal with _this_, with dead bodies of friends and gaping bullet holes and frosted green eyes. It hadn't been so bad with Caitlin. (But then, two years compared to ten.) He was able to set aside his affections for the young woman and do his job. But this…

He should have been a teacher. Maybe that way, he wouldn't be staring at Anthony's too-pale too-still face, wondering if the boy had had felt anything.

Judging by the proximity of the wound to the heart and the mass of damage (and the infernal grin, etched into the dead, still face, oh _God_) it was unlikely. Anthony hadn't suffered at all. His death had been quick and painless.

Small mercies.

Ducky had not been overly fond of Anthony, no more so than he was of Ziva and Timothy. The field agents did not penetrate the world of Autopsy often, but still, the doctor was fond of the boy. He was like Jethro had been, back before serial killers and mass murderers and his own crippling pain hardened him. Anthony was life, and it was rather refreshing to see him in a place where death ruled.

But not like this.

Anthony, full of resilient energy and passion, should never lie on a table, stone cold, cut down. The boy was white, colorless. His hair was flat, damp from the washing-down. The congealed blood had been washed away, the last swirls of crimson vanishing down the drain. His chest, with its numerous scars, was pale in the bright light.

His green eyes were closed, and with some effort, his face had been repositioned, the awful grin gone.

He could be sleeping.

(Except he was too—_fragile_—too small and shrunken. And the wound, the wound, gaping, grinning, let's not forget that, Duck.)

It was his job, as the medical examiner, to determine the cause of death of any and all NCIS agents, but really, was it _necessary_? It was rather obvious.

Vance was adamant, however, and insisted that an autopsy be preformed. Perhaps he thought that seeing Tony, cut open and stitched together like a toy, a great, lifeless doll, would lessen the grief of the team. Dehumanize the man, make him another of the hundreds of bodies Ducky autopsied, and perhaps the pain and the loss would go away.

Vance was a fool.

But Ducky, the humble servant, picked up his tools, put on his mask. Mr. Palmer had gone home. Poor lad. He was Anthony's friend, and frankly, Ducky was glad he left. Young Jimmy didn't need to see the once-strong man cut to pieces, reduced to nothing but parts on a table.

He pressed the blade to the hollow of Anthony's throat.

"Anthony, my dear boy…" He said softly to the still corpse. The blade hovered. One cut. One swift motion and Anthony would cease to be Anthony, like Caitlin had ceased to be Caitlin.

Dehumanize.

Push the pain away.

Transform it.

A man without humanity is a man you cannot mourn.

The blade gleamed on the pale chest, dotted with scars.

"Anthony…." Ducky blinked. Tears swam in his eyes; he forced them away. He was a medical examiner. Cold. Unfeeling. His job was to find answers, to honor the dead by solving their final mysteries, not to cry over them.

He pressed down. The skin parted beneath his knife.

(So, whaddaya got for me, Duck?)

He was a medical examiner.

But more importantly, he was a friend.

For the first time in his life, Dr. Donald Mallard, M.E., put aside his knife and walked out of Autopsy.

* * *

_(five hours)_

Abby held Bert the hippo and cried. That's all she'd done the past few hours; cling to whatever offered the most comfort and cry. McGee had gone, forced out by Vance, and the forensic scientist was left alone to cradle the hippo and sob.

There was a hole in Abby's world, and it _hurt_. Everyone felt it. It was a tangible absence, a great gaping wound that sat in the center of the squad room, and every agent, officer, or even janitor who walked past it winced and averted their eyes, refusing to even glance at Anthony DiNozzo's empty desk.

The hole seemed to suck in people, however. Far too many had tramped past in the five hours since Tony's death, casting a swift glance at the empty quartet of desks and then hurrying on, as though ashamed of walking past the desks belonging to one Team Gibbs.

They should be ashamed. Tony was dead. (Abby choked back a sob.) He was dead and gone and everyone should be wearing black, crying, clinging to one another as the hole in the bullpen bled tears.

Abby wasn't really aware of what was going on outside of the little bubble she created. (It consisted of pain, Bert, and herself.) At some point, Palmer, ashen-faced, red-eyed, had arrived with a box full of Tony (his clothes, his blood, the bullet that had torn him from the world) and then rushed out.

Poor Jimmy.

Vance had attempted to come in at least twice since McGee left the building, attempting to talk her into working the evidence. She refused to go near the Box. It sat in the dark (where it belonged) and Abby buried her face in Bert to avoid looking at it.

The remnants of Tony were in that box. It was like desecrating a dead body to touch his clothes, to rifle through everything that had been in his pockets. It was sacrilege, it was destroying some holy thing. Everything in the Box was tony, was all of him, and taking it apart was horrible.

Besides, if she didn't learn anything about Tony's death, she wouldn't have to look into Gibbs' eyes and tell him she couldn't tell him anything. She wouldn't have to lie. Vance had pulled Gibbs' team from the case with explicit orders to everyone that they were not to be told anything.

At all.

It felt like a betrayal, to Gibbs, to the team, and to Tony. So Abby wouldn't do it.

She would stay inside her bubble, cuddle Bert, and cry.

_Really, Abs? _Tony would have said. _Really?_

"Yes, really." She whispered into Bert.

_You're gonna leave me there? You're not gonna find out who killed me? _Tony's memory glared at her with sharp eyes. _I would have, for you. _

Abby screwed her eyes shut, her heart twisting, and prepared for the onslaught of sobbing. None came. Tony's memory urged her to her feet and she staggered, unsteady.

Later, she could curl up in her coffin and cry until her head hurt as much as her heart and her mascara made her look like a raccoon. But now there was work to be done.

And Gibbs _would _know about it, Vance be damned.

Bert farted in agreement.

Shakily, Abby stumbled from her bubble, inhaling the rush of outside world, still leaking tears, and made her way to the Box on the table. She set Bert aside and, hands trembling (but fingers steady) she opened the Box.

Inside was what was left of Tony's clothes and the things he carried with him at all times, as well as evidence from the scene itself: bullets, shrapnel, blood. Tony's clothes rested on top. (He had been nicely dressed today, all formal in a white dress shirt and a gray vest, a red tie tucked in, snappy shoes, gray Armani pants and jacket. Why did she wait to tell him he looked nice? Why? Why?) The .45-cal holes in his vest and shirt were soaked in blood.

She trembled.

_Abs. _The memory said. She set the clothes aside. His wallet, his dress pants, his NCIS badge, his SIG immerged from the depths of the Box. The silver watch McGee had given him two Christmases ago, an apology for _Deep Six_. His fraternity ring, hooked on his car keys, from which dangled a plastic thing from Puerto Rico and a bright orange miniature Converse, as well as his apartment key and a set of odds and ends.

Abby knew those odds and ends.

There was a red hospital bracelet, worn at the ends, with _Attending: Dr. J. Benoit _imprinted next to Tony's name and birthday. There was a rather frayed friendship bracelet (from Abby) with a silver skull braided into it, looped tightly about the key ring. There was a carved wooden badge (from Gibbs, last Christmas) with 'NCIS' carefully scratched into the surface. There was an Israeli symbol, made from gold, and a lead bullet McGee had found on his vacation to Gettysburg. The orange shoe, too, from Kate, way back when.

Abby choked back a sob, realizing what the keychain meant, what it stood for (everything). She grabbed Tony's clothes, determined, and quickly gathered her equipment.

This would be her very best work ever, for Tony (and the odds and ends he carried, always, a reminder of his friends, his _family_).

Abby Sciuto, forensic scientist extraordinaire, set to work, pulling trace, running the bullet through database after database, and glaring fiercely all the while, tears slipping down her cheeks.

In the seclusion of her lab, no one saw Abby slip the colorful, eclectic keychain into her pocket.

* * *

_(six hours)_

Leroy Jethro Gibbs sat in the dark of his basement, and his heart was ringed in stone. He had spent hours (ever since Leon, damn him, had kicked him from the case) hardening the wall, placing each stone, cementing them with memories (Tony laughing, smiling, working, a feverish gleam in his eyes, determined, brave) and making sure they would not collapse, leaving his heart open and vulnerable.

He needed to be focused, cold, aloof. He could not afford to lose control. Tony's memory depended on it.

His hand, neatly bandaged, stitched up and mended (in the back of an ambulance, because Gibbs refused to go to the hospital, not when his agent was dead in the ambulance next to his) and the painkillers sit on the table, next to the bottle of bourbon. Neither of them were opened.

He couldn't take the comfort of either of them, not now. He needed to be hurt, angry. A wounded bear was more dangerous, less afraid to lash out, swing its claws, gnash its teeth. A wounded bear could get revenge.

His stomach and chest offered protests as he moved, stood, staggered to the boat. (The splinters lay on the table, bloodied, and they gleam in the half-light.) He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, inhaling the familiar smell of cut lumber and sawdust.

All that was left now was the actual hunting down of the killer, which was going to be a challenge because the _Director_ (the word tasted like ashes) thought that taking Gibbs from the case would help the healing process, would ensure a clean collar, no deaths, no torture.

He was woefully, woefully wrong.

There would be death, oh yes. Gibbs would not, _could not_, allow the death of one of his own to go unpunished. Leon was either too stupid or too naïve to realize it. The agent in charge of the investigation—Agent Owens, fresh out of Hawaii—had no clue how to lead such an investigation. Sooner or later, Gibbs would get the case, or get the information from the case, and run his own investigation, off to the side, and then—

Closure.

It would be quick, unfortunately. The murderer wouldn't suffer overmuch, only a little, though he deserved excruciating, gut-wrenching agony, like his heart was being torn out, his chest ripped open, his ribs, like broken toys, cast aside.

He deserved to feel the pain that Gibbs was feeling.

But he couldn't. Gibbs had to be careful, had to leave no trace, because Leon (damn him) would not hesitate to investigate Gibbs and the murder. As much as he wanted the murderer to suffer, he also knew that being locked up in jail wouldn't do anyone any good.

It would be quick, then.

If only Gibbs _had_ something. Owens was in the NCIS building (which Gibbs was banned from until further notice) and Abby hadn't called. She would, though. Her loyalty to Gibbs, to Tony, was far greater than her loyalty to Vance.

But the silence, the waiting, it was like fire, burning, in his stomach. He wanted to throw up, to purge himself of the fire (out of the ashes, rises—?) but he couldn't. Not yet.

The hours ticked by. Gibbs felt them, each second, sliding across his skin like knives (splinters) and he bit back a groan. He was waiting for Abby. She would help him, he knew, because Tony was her family too, and she was far more loyal than Vance gave her credit for.

Pins and needles, all down his arms, his face, his back. His hand hurt. His stomach burned. But his heart, his heart, felt nothing.

Not yet.

The wall of memories held back the bullet. Not for forever, but for long enough.

2100. Nothing. Silence, splinters, a dead husk of a boat, six hours since Tony was shot from the world.

2200.

2300.

2400. His eyes started to droop. He refused to sleep, and smashed his wounded hand against the wall. The pain woke him up, forced air through his lungs. (It always did.) He waited.

0100.

0200. He started to see things, in the dark. The images were all blood, all death, and he looked away.

0300. Nothing, until—

The ring of his cell phone brought Gibbs back to Earth, and the bloody images disappeared. He didn't pause to look at the number. It had to be Abby.

"Abs—" (how raspy he sounded, like he hadn't spoken in years, but it's only been hours, right?)

A soft laugh rumbled from the phone. Gibbs' blood turned to ice.

"I am not Ms. Sciuto." The other voice hissed. Snakelike. Chilling. "Sorry."

Gibbs licked his lips, forced air between his teeth. "Who are you?" There, that sounded threatening. A low growl, like a bear.

"You don't need to know." Said the voice, and Gibbs could feel him smiling.

"Why are you calling?" The agent asked, and he _knew_, he knew that this was the man who had ended Tony's life.

The other man paused, his wet breath ghosting thoughtfully over the phone line. "To make sure you stay focused."

"Who are you?" Gibbs demanded again, standing, as though the man was in the room with him.

The man chuckled, the sound rolling across the phone. "I'm the man who killed your boy."

And the line went dead.

Gibbs stood in the dark of his basement, clenching his phone to his ear, shaking. _To make sure you stay focused. _The urge to throw up was almost overwhelming.

With all the force he could muster, Gibbs threw his phone against the wall. It shattered on the floor, and the NCIS agent buried his head in his hands. Blood was seeping through the bandages, the wounds burning.

His mouth was heavy, filled with unsaid words and ashes.

_Tony—_

The wall around his heart shuddered. He forced them up, as always, and winced at the effort, and realized that waiting around in the dark for someone to do something was not going to work. (Did it ever?)

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, NCIS Special Agent, stood up, hand on fire, stomach burning, and walked up the stairs and straight out the door, his face carved from stone.

His mouth, still full of unspoken things and ashes, twisted. There was hell to pay.

_I promise you, Tony. We're gonna find the men who did this. _

A tiny voice, buried his head, called back. _I know, Boss. I know. _

Out of the ashes, rises—?

* * *

**Review!**

**~WSS**


	3. Three

**Hi! I'm only a day late, so not too bad, right?**

**Disclaimer- I do not own NCIS. **

* * *

"Making his way through all of it.  
On the surface:unflappable, unwavering.  
Below: unnerved, untied, undone." -Death, _The Book Theif_

Three

_(thirteen hours)_

Gibbs slunk through the darkened NCIS building, keeping his eyes open for any security guards or late-working agents. He encountered neither guard nor agent, as he expected. He had the guard rounds memorized and it was 0400 on a Friday evening, no one worked late on Friday. He caught his face in a window as he passed, and he marvelled at the pale skin, the bright eyes. Determination made him look even fiercer than usual.

Carefully, he stepped into the weak light, reviewing his options.

The bullpen was off-limits (too many cameras, and Vance was still in the building), not that Gibbs wanted to go there in the first place. What he needed was Abby, was Ducky (was Tony), and he angled his journey so that he could reach the lower levels of the building.

It was dark and quiet and Gibbs slid past the security cameras, knowing that the stairwells didn't have any and that the one in the back hallway leading to Abby's lab had been defunct for months and months. He also knew that the camera watching Autopsy went out periodically every three minutes for four seconds (for a federal agency, NCIS was surprisingly poor-equipped to deal with intruders), and the blinking red light on the top went out with it. Gibbs knew every little detail about the building, and he planned on using it to his advantage.

In the garage, Gibbs paused, momentarily indecisive. Abby or Ducky? He chose in a heartbeat; Abby was no doubt distraught, and working, and while he loved the girl, Gibbs didn't think he could look her in the eye, not until Tony's murderer was caught. Abby needed comfort, but comforting did not come easily to Gibbs; he was all jagged edges, and he tended to jab and hurt whoever he tried to get close to.

To Autopsy he went.

The stairwell was deserted and his feet went _clumpclumpclump _on the concrete, and Gibbs listened to the echo as it flowed, oddly distorted, past his ears as he went down three floors, hung a sharp left, and entered the Autopsy hallway. Ducky was not in—his car was gone. He had probably gone home, in search of some strong scotch. It had been over twelve hours since the Incident (thirteen hours, seventeen minutes, twenty-three-four-five seconds), and the ME should be done with his gruesome work now.

The former Marine had to steel himself at thought of Tony lying cut up on a table, his brains and guts and skin pulled every which way, and he felt his heart kick, shudder.

His throat convulsed, and he reflexively swallowed, crushing the urge to throw up (scream cry rage). He punched the orange walls once, out of reflex, and the pain in his wounded hand centered his mind.

Gibbs lurked in the shadows, blinking, his hand and heart stinging, and he waited.

The red camera light blinked out, and then Gibbs was standing in the cool room, surrounded by metal tables, sharp implements, and the sound of someone speaking.

In Hebrew.

Gibbs' taut body relaxed. Ziva.

"You're not supposed to be in here." His tone sounded harsh, but Ziva knew that it wasn't meant to be.

"Neither are you." Her voice was small, and her face hidden in the dark. She sat next to the steel cabinets, and her hands were stroking one of them. Gibbs did not have to guess which one had Tony.

Nodding, the Marine padded closer to her, and saw her face, tired, sad. Grief, inexpressible, was etched onto her features. She looked twenty years older.

"What're ya doing here, Ziva?" He asked, and his voice was gentler.

"Sitting _shiva._" She said. It was then that Gibbs noticed her clothes had been cut.

"Ah." Gibbs was quiet. He knew of the Jewish ritual, of the sitting next to the dead, of clothes that were cut and never mended.

"Have you seen him?" Ziva asked. Her eyes were hidden by shadow.

Gibbs swallowed, forcing the cut-up, ripped apart Tony from his head. He was tempted to bash his hand against the wall again. Ziva would understand—the old agent saw the bandages on her hands and feet. "No." He paused, unsure how to phrase his words. "Is he—does he look bad?" (_like meat, like trash, torn to pieces and discarded?) _

"No." Her voice was soft, almost reverent. "Ducky did not—did not go through with the autopsy. He does not look good, but he is... whole."

Blue eyes blinked, surprised (_grateful_). "Duck- he didn't?"

Ziva shook her head. "No. He went home."

Gibbs, grateful, thankful, stunned, stood silent. Then; "He doesn't look bad?" _(Thank you, Duck, thank you thank you.)_

Wordlessly Ziva open the metal door and pulled out the steel table. A sheet, white, was thrown (carefully) over the still body, and (her hands trembling but her fingers steady) the Israeli pulled back the sheet.

Gibbs saw the familiar brown hair, and walked heavily over to her.

Tony DiNozzo lay before him, and the lead agent's mouth was full of everything he ever meant to say and ashes.

Tony's skin was too pale and blood pooled around his eyes, forming deep bruises. He was too still, not moving like he always was, even when asleep. The man was—_had been —_full of energy, always, and sometimes Gibbs wondered if Tony'd suffered from ADHD or something, and now he was just—still.

Lifeless.

Unmoving.

Silenced.

It hurt. Kate's death had hurt, too, but not like this—this was worse, this was nine years of constant chatter and movie references and "_on your six, boss!" _suddenly and brutally silenced.

Gibbs tugged the sheet back over Tony's face.

_I'm so sorry, Tony._

_I know, boss. _

Shaking himself, Gibbs blinked. "D'you need anything?" He asked Ziva, quietly, gently.

She shook her head. "I will be fine." She said, as she pushed Tony's body back into the cabinet.

The agent turned to go. At the doorway, waiting for the light to flash red, he turned. "Ziva—" he began.

In the dark blue light of Autopsy she raised her hand. "_Barukh atah Hashem Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, dayan ha-emet." _She said, cutting him and his stumbling words off.

Gibbs bowed his head. He understood.

Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, the True Judge.

It was the prayer prayed by the relatives of the dead upon learning of the death. A tradition and words of sorrow, of acceptance, of praise and mourning. It was pain and love and prayer all mashed together and even Gibbs, who had stopped believing in God long ago, felt their power and their pull wash over him.

His face, still, composed, turned from Ziva.

His heart, broken, walled in, shuddering in grief, shook.

Blessed are You—

The light on the camera blinked out. Gibbs started to move.

Lord, our God—

His throat convulsed as he went, hurrying. His hands shook and he felt himself lose a little bit of his control. His walls shuddered, threatening to come undone.

King of the universe—

His eyes swam, and at first he did not recognize what he was feeling, because it had been so very long since Gibbs had cried.

The True Judge—

It had been so long, and in the stairwell, hands clenched, chest too tight to breathe, Gibbs almost let go. His face was stone. His heart was not.

Almost.

Not yet.

There was work to be done. He bounded up the stairs and went on.

—Amen.


	4. Four

**Disclaimer: I don't own NCIS or any of the quotes I use to open a chapter. :D**

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"O she is a child of war  
Up to her knees in blood and gore  
In her heart her lover dies  
Blown to bits 'neath black skies."

-_Child of War_

Four

_(fourteen hours)_

_Ziva David is dreaming. _

_She doesn't know where she is, but it's nice. She's most definitely outside, in the open; she can feel the wind on her face and hear the leaves crackling underfoot. She's walking and it's fall, the world around her a brilliant swirl of red-orange fire. She can't make anything out. It's all blurry, fuzzy, like waking from a long sleep or walking with a film over her eyes. She can see the sky, though, and it's black but bright, light coming from the earth instead of the sky. There aren't any stars, just wide blackness. There's the fire of the trees and the ash of the sky, and in an odd way it's beautiful. _

_She's walking with someone. They're talking, but her ears are full of cotton balls and she can't hear what is said, but she doesn't really need to because it's comforting, the voice. It's warm and familiar and inexplicably comforting. _

_She can't turn her head to look at whoever is talking—her eyes are locked straight forward. She can see, out of the corners of her eyes, what might be a hand, swinging cheerfully, a suited shoulder, a patch of neck. The person next to her keeps talking, words a muted but steady hum, and she basks in his voice and in the starless black sky and the brilliant leaves. _

_It's calm, it's soothing, and it rings with normalcy. Ziva, for the first time since Mikael, since the events in the desert, is at peace. _

_Her companion laughs, the sound transformed into deep, soulful rumbles, and then—_

_A noise, like lighting and thunder cracking open the sky. _

_There is a muted groan and something warm and wet splashes her face, and at last, she can turn her head. _

_Ziva looks down, ears ringing, eyes swimming, and meets a pair of bright green eyes. Tony is in perfect focus, his eyes wide and shocked, his face whitening, blood splashing from a horrible wound in his chest—_

_Sound snaps into existence. Tony gasping, wet horrible broken, herself screaming, high, frightened, pleading, and _laughter_, terrible, dark, menacing laughter ringing from the black sky and the burning trees, and there's blood on her fingers as she tries desperately, vainly, to staunch the bleeding—_

"_Zee-vah?" The words are a gasp, shot all to hell, gurgling and leaking out into the air. Confusion sparks in his green eyes, and then there's anger. _You didn't save me. _His eyes say, and then under her hands he dies, eyes misting over, and she keens in grief, the sky and the trees dissolving, the laughter resonating in her ears, and oh _God, _there's so much blood—_

Ziva woke shuddering, her eyes wet, and she shivered with the force of her sobs. She couldn't breath, couldn't make her heart stop kicking or aching, couldn't slow her agony or staunch her pain. The metal doors of the Autopsy cabinets filled her with ice—her face was cold and her hands shook (fingers steady) on the silvery door.

She had to look at her hands to make sure they weren't soaked in blood (so, so much blood) and she watched as her mind filled in the blanks and sticky crimson colored her vision for a flash.

The only sound in Autopsy was her gasping, shuddering breath and the soft hum of the freezers, the only light the dim lamps above. Shade and silence made the dream real—laughter and gunshots and the _dripdripdrip _of blood bounced and rattled and left her shaking.

_It was a dream. _She told herself, looking down at her hands (cleanbloodyclean) and clenching her fingers, almost in reflex. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to breath, to swallow the guilt and the loss and the sorrow.

_I cannot do this again! _The thought surfaced against her will, bucking against all of her shields and protections. She felt in tear at her heart with Ari's hands, scream with Mikael's voice, glare with Tony's eyes. It was too much, much too much, crushing her with guilt and loss.

First Ari, by her own hand, then Mikael, by Tony's, and then Tony himself, by a masked man, and it was all over so quickly, _bam _and then nothing (at all) but ashes and dead men with glassy eyes and grinning mouths and bullet holes where hearts once were.

She was tired of losing the people she cared about, loved far more than she should.

Her hands (shaking, shaking, always shaking) curled around the handle of the cabinet, and in one swift movement, Tony's body was out in the open and the blueish light shone off the black cover.

Ziva threw it back and stared down at the white face, the closed eyes, the blood pooled in the hollows of his cheeks. Tony's face was cold, his noise silenced, his laughter and fierceness and joy and loyalty and pain shut off and down. Her fingers slid down his icy skin, marveling at how after only fourteen hours (has it only been fourteen? It feels like a lifetime, like three lifetimes.) in the freezer life's warmth has completely left Tony DiNozzo.

Her fingers wandered down to his throat, his shoulders, his chest. The Wound was black and gaping and horrible, the skin too jagged at the bones too shattered. The bullet slammed into his heart and tore it apart—she could see bits of pinkish red tissue. (It looks like a bomb went off.)

"I am so sorry." She murmurs, her eyes stinging and the Ari-Mikael-Tony monster in her chest roared and snarled.

_I know. _

But Tony's voice in her head was already fading, twisting—words bouncing through a tunnel, echoing and falling and coming apart until there voice was distorted and forgotten.

"I am so sorry."

And then Tony's there, standing across from her, his skin pale in the blue light but his green eyes so fierce, so bright. He was wearing the suit he had worn when he killed Mikael, and it's not stained with blood. His face was half-shadow and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

"_You didn't shoot him." _Tony groaned, his words echoing and bouncing and running into each other (you are in a tunnel, Ziva, but can you see the light?) until she can barely understand, or doesn't want to, because Tony is dead beneath her fingers and he can't be talking to her, standing there, solid and alive.

"_Why, Zee-vah? Why?"_

She choked, her eyes flickering from the dead man to the living one.

"I didn't—" (see him hear him react in time, I'm so so sorry)

Thunder split the air and Tony (dead or alive?) fell back, his green eyes going wide and accusing and sad and he toppled, falling back, almost graceful, his arms and hands arching through the air in slow motion, tiny little droplets of blood splashing from his suit.

He vanished before he hit the ground, leaving only echoes and drops of crimson on the floor.

Ziva shook.

The dead man beneath her hands was real and solid—but so was the living man who had fallen into nothing, and she _hurt_—

_(it's all your fault it's all your fault it's all your fucking fault—!)_

Her hands wandered down Tony's scarred chest of their own accord, heedless of their owner's shuddering grief. Her hands found his own and she tangled their fingers, hers soft and warm and alive and his hard and stiff and cold and dead.

_I should have seen the shooter. _

She should have—she had been looking at the end of the hallway but she had only seen the dead man and her body had loosened, relieved, tricked into believing the other attacker had fled and that they all were safe.

And she was wrong.

Some deeply rational part of her, the part that had been trained by Mossad from the tender age of five, said that she could not have foreseen the danger.

But that part of her was as dead as the man beneath Ziva's hands (so cold, so still) and fuck, she just couldn't do this—

(In the life before NCIS and Gibbs and Tony and love, she had been able to count on one hand how many times she had cried.

Her mother.

Tali.

A young boy, Yusef, who had been her neighbor in Tel Aviv.

But now—

Too many deaths.

And tears.

And—)

And then NCIS and Ari died and Gibbs couldn't remember and Mikael stopped breathing and Tony, Tony. She had had _dreams_ again, splendid ones, dreams of love and laughter, compainionship, sex, maybe even a family, a little girl with her father's eyes and her mother's hair, running loose in the bullpen, demanding a piggyback from her Uncle McGee. And now—

(_all dead, all gone, all shattered, and it'sallyourfuckingfault!)_

It was too much and not enough and again the black-suited Tony watched her from the shadows, his shirt stained with blood, and she closed her eyes.

_In a forest painted fiery with a starless sky, black, hanging above, she holds him as he gasps, as he shakes and his eyes roll back and he dies—_

Ziva David clung to Anthony DiNozzo's hand and cried like a child, the tears hot on cold flesh.

The dead-Mossad part of her clinically ticked off the eighth finger.


	5. Five

**Disclaimer- I don't own NCIS. I'm exicted for it to come back, though. HURRY UP, SEPTEMBER, GET HERE. **

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"So many bright lights are cast to shadow." -My Chemical Romance, _Famous Last Words_

Five

_(fifteen hours) _

Tim McGee considered it a point of professional pride that he rarely showed how much cases affected him. Gibbs, Ziva, Director Sheppard, Abby, _him_, all of them showed it clearly when a case got under their skin, when something set their teeth on edge and made them angry or hurt (or scared). It was a tick, almost, the in-bred federal agent response, the you've-crossed-the-line-and-now-I'm-going-to-fucking-kill-you gene. Everyone had at least one enemy, one case that drove them wild with anger.

Gibbs had Ari, Sheppard had La Grenouille, Director Vance had Kai. Abby got upset when working child-abuse cases and Gibbs hated drug dealers. Ziva went crazy when working terrorist cases, and _he_ hated—_used _to hate (God, _used _to.) – rapists.

But McGee never got worked up, except when he was nervous, but those Probie days were long past, and during even the most horrible of cases he was flat and expressionless. He didn't have that gene, the in-bred cop/assassin response. He had never had a true arch-enemy, a set of criminals that filled him with hot determination and dark hate. He'd had his fair share of sickos, of course, the ones that made his flesh crawl and his heart stutter and his hands clench into fists.

But he hardly ever showed his reactions. He was a professional, unless he was pushed past his Limit—that tolerance that every human had. At work, he was cool and collected and (frequently) a smart ass, though in a more mature, less childish way than his team mates.

At home, of course, he'd fall apart. He'd rage and scream and howl, hating the world and the sick, twisted people in it. Writing helped, naturally. It gave an outlet, someplace to put all the horror and have the heroes defeat it, because in real life, the good guys didn't always win.

(_He_ was proof of that, because he was a good man, and he was _dead_.)

So in his writing, McGregor and Tommy and Tibbs and Amy and Lisa beat back the bad guys, put them all in jail, and there was a happy ending every time.

But this, _this_, this was not a happy ending. This was time cut short, was life stamped out, was grief and sadness and pain.

Tony was dead, and McGee could feel himself cracking. Tony was Tony—he couldn't just _die_, because the man was (_had _been, Timothy, had been) irrepressible. He fell and then he got up again. He got shot and got up again. He was tortured and kidnapped and he got up again. He got the freaking _plague, _and he _got up again. _

_I'm not getting up this time, Probie. _

Tim McGee was coming undone. He paced around his apartment, blind, aching. His books, his jazz, his computer and typewriter, all lay abandoned, untouched. He couldn't use them, couldn't escape into them like he always did. When a case got too tough or too close to home, he'd rage and rant and then he'd lose himself in his Elf Lord persona, or in Thom E. Gemcity. He'd dive into the latest mystery novel or lay on his back, smooth jazz swirling around and around.

But none of these things could help him now. He'd tried, of course. But his Elf Lord had been slain and his novel was too gruesome and his jazz music was too warn out, and he couldn't write because Tommy (_Tony_) seemed to be staring out at him, sadness in green eyes, and his hands shook (his fingers were steady, strangely enough) and he just couldn't make the words come.

He was stuck, and hurting, and so sad that every breath was a white-hot pain in his chest, slicing into his ribs, driving the air out of him.

Most of all, he missed Tony.

The man had been annoying, childish, and sometimes downright inappropriate. He was (_had been, _Timthoy, get that through your head!) crass and loud and didn't seem to work much. Tony shouted and fought and generally was a catastrophy waiting to happen.

But he was _Tony. _He was fierce and strong and kind and actually pretty sweet, if the mood struck him. He had that homicidal loyalty, the fire, and the intelligence to do his job, to protect his team, to love them, in his own bizarre, screwed-up way, and—

He was dead.

And that was that.

There was no coming back from this one, no magical, surreal revelation that the dead man on the table wasn't really Tony, that the quirky agent had escaped and was on his way.

McGee had seen the bullet hole in his friend's chest. He had seen the blood, the misted eyes, the face frozen into a terrible grin.

He had held Tony's hand and felt its ice, and he knew that Tony was dead.

Frankly, it _sucked _—No, worse than that. It was like having a limb chopped off, like losing a sibling, a best friend. It was the sun stopped shining and the ground blown open, it was falling and falling and realizing that you had no parachute.

Tim couldn't breathe. He couldn't function, couldn't think. All he knew was that he was in his apartment, hurting so bad he could barely stand it, and he didn't know how he got there or why, just that he was there and Tony was lying in Autopsy, deadgoneextinguished.

Vance had something to do with it, but all his memories of the last fifteen hours were fragments spinning madly in his head, and he couldn't control them—

(_gunshots blood on the floor green eyes and a smile)_

—any more than he could slow his thundering, cracked heart. He remembered the bullpen, orange, too orange, and Abby, warm and shaking, her tears on his collar.

Vance, stern, face flat, smooth, toothpick clenched between teeth, words jumbled and running together and smashing into one another.

There had been another agent, some random guy (Security, maybe?), and too-strong hands, and a car ride, and then blind stumbling and fumbling and then pacing, endless, endless pacing.

McGee looked down at his hands, and how they shook, and he clenched them into fists.

_What's a matter, Pro-ho-ho-bie? _

_You're dead. _McGee told the voice. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I don't know what do—!_

Tim looked up, glanced around, half-expecting to see a hallucination, a projection of Tony, like he did when Kate had died.

But there were no green eyes, no megawatt grin. Tony was silent and still and dead, and McGee felt so lost.

He remembered Vance, remembered his sternness, his glinting eyes.

"Go home." The Director had said. "You can't do anything."

He had taken Gibbs' team off the case, sent them all away. Abby had cried, then, McGee knew. She had sobbed and fled from Vance, locking herself in her office.

Ziva hadn't been there, but she probably knew.

Gibbs had been there, though. Gibbs and his ice, his cold eyes and his wounded hand, standing like the world was falling and shaking around him.

And Vance had sent them away and something dark had shone in the lead agent, something bloody, something that snarled and growled and promised blood.

But McGee didn't have that. He didn't have that monster, that anger. That was a Gibbs thing, a Ziva thing, a Tony thing. They all had it, but McGee didn't. Abby didn't and Ducky didn't. Palmer didn't. Agent Lee hadn't had it either. Kate did, and Jenny Sheppard did, and Paula Cassidy and Chris Pacci. But Timothy McGee just didn't have it.

He _wanted _it, though. He desperately, desperately wanted it, craved it as he paced around and around, clenching and unclenching his shaking hands. If he had it, maybe he could fight back. Maybe he could find Tony's murderer and kill him, smash him from the world like he smashed Tony.

But—

(_gunshots one two three shouting the thump of a body blood on the floor icy skin and a smile)_

"I don't know what to do!" He shouted, smashing his hands into the wall.

His wounds tingled and his heart spasmed, shuddering.

He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, and his eyes pricked and his lips trembled and his hands shook and bled.

He was unraveling, coming apart like a poorly plotted story, all his insides spilling up and out and lying strewn around him. There was _terror_ in his chest, horror, so much fear (of failure, of dying, of frosted green eyes) that his heart felt like it was exploding, was pulling itself apart.

"I don't know what to do." He repeated, appealing God or Allah or Buddha or the universe (Tony) to come and tell him what to do, to guide him, give him purpose, because he was stuck here in his apartment and his friend was dead and he himself was surely dying because one person couldn't handle such grief, such outpouring of pent-up pain and love and loss.

There was no answer and, stumbling and cracking and keening softly, lowly in his throat, McGee lurched towards the bathroom, half-collapsing against the sink, a low, mournful sound spilling from his mouth, his shaking hands and steady fingers gripping his sink. His shoulders hunched, he spasmed, shivered, his shoulders quaking, head bowed, and forced himself to look in the mirror.

The man who looked back was not Tim McGee. The man was older, a thousand years older, with grief in his shoulders and hollowness in his eyes, with blood on his shirt and rips and wounds and bandages. This man was a trembling creature, a creature held together by threads, bursting at the seams.

This man was a stranger.

A strangled sound, half-sobbing, half-laughter, forced itself into existence. Tim stared at his reflection and shook, fingers clutching the smooth sink, and he forced himself to stare at the stranger's lost eyes, leaning in until his nose touched the smooth glass.

And for a moment, a pair of green eyes stared back.

McGee jerked, leaped back, and in the mirror he saw—

_(blood on the floor misted eyes a smile an icy hand and a bullet wound) _

"No!" He roared, and then there was motion and glass had shattered, glass had sprayed, his mirror was broken apart, a book lying in the sink, surrounded by the little fragments.

Tony was gone, and only the fractured image of McGee remained.

The mirror reflected the man, and, watching himself in cracked glass, Timothy McGee sank to his knees, dry, heaving sobs shaking his shoulders.

From the bits of glass, a pair of green eyes blinked.

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**Okay, so I have 37 favorites and 33 story alerts, plus over 1000 hits for this story, but only 21 reviews. C'mon, review, guys! To an author feedback is the greatest thing ever. Please review, because it encourages me to keep writing. **

**Thanks!**

**Also, watch for SYMBOLISM. Every one of the main characters has a theme tied to them- see if you can figure it out!**

**~WSS**


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